Ho-Ren-Sō

He’s nodding off standing against the map

Doesn’t forget the thousand days he hasn’t slept

A dose to relax and another one to reset

Muted trouble something dark stirring in his head

Gathering freon and benadryl to take to bed

Rot in the shed, leave your own head

All the drool pooling on the sidewalk

They’re overworked and underpaid

Hunched over suicidal dread

All we do is rot in the shed

And sleep when we’re worn thin

Everyone's alive with no skin to wear 

Surrounding the lower darkness

Burning crosses in attempt to repair

A broken picture of their conscious